


It's unconventional but it's family

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 16:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Martin Cobblepot, 20, is working his way towards becoming the ideal heir to The Penguin, and sometimes it means getting his hands dirty.





	It's unconventional but it's family

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daisiestdaisy (Doyle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doyle/gifts).



> Ahahahaha Daisy I nearly forgot but I remembered your birthday at like, the last minute.

There’s this little light he’s noticed in a person’s fearful stare, a sort of sheen to the human eye, but it’s the absence of it that’s so striking.

His current target slumps against the desk, and it’s here, right as the last threads begin to fray, that there’s a crescendo of that light, a brightening as understanding truly settles into their expression. Nothing bleeds quite like a cut to the axillary artery.

And then there’s nothing. Just a husk.

It’s long after the light’s left the man’s eyes that Martin dares to lift his trademark mask off his face to survey his latest work. Sloppy. Too messy. He tsks down at the bloodstain interrupting the pinstripe of his pant leg.

He just got this pair tailored. What a waste.

The nameless thug doing Martin’s heavy lifting holds out a bag for Martin to deposit his disposable switchblade into, along with his mask and his  _ favorite _ pair of leather gloves. They’ll not survive the cleaning near as soft or warm, but it’s the cost of being careful when he’s been anything but with the man that dared cross The Penguin.

He rubs his bare palms together, and finds himself missing the tugging drag he feels when he does this while wearing his gloves. He’ll request another pair, and  _ this  _ time he’ll keep his work and his fashion separate.

The driver holds open the rear passenger side door for Martin and he bends down into the limousine. There’s a warm, wet cloth in a shallow bowl and a note from The Penguin requesting his presence once his work’s been completed. He rereads the note before tossing it into the seat to his left. The driver knows the way to go.

He uses the cloth to wet his face and it comes back streaked with pink. Martin runs his bare hand across his cheeks and it, too, comes back pink. The man’s spray was a bit more impressive than Martin anticipated. He’s going to get another lecture about blood pressure if he doesn’t rid his person of the evidence that his mind  _ might  _ have been elsewhere during the lesson the first time.

It’s as he cleans his face that, oh, he’s really made a mess of himself this time. There’s another few clusters of spray on his waistcoat. He’s certain there’s blood on his shirt as well, but the black fabric hides the evidence.

Briefly he considers adding a little detour to his trip, but it’s over by the time he’s finished getting the worst of the blood off his face and out of his hairline. He’ll have to deal with the fallout now, something he’s not looking forward to, but he nods his head in thanks towards the front of the car and opens the door for himself. No sense making The Penguin wait.

He isn’t used to the new lounge colors. It’s too white, too blinding, and Martin’s afraid to bump into anything for fear of spreading his stains to the surrounding area.

A series of grunts and lieutenants direct him to the main office, and that’s where he finds The Penguin. He’s slumped to one side in his oversized throne, tapping one finger against his cheek and sighing dejectedly as he reads the paper.

The calm only lasts until he happens to glance up and sees Martin, and boy, he’s not a fast man in his advanced age but somehow he always manages inhuman speeds when Martin is involved. He tugs a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs a spot near Martin’s temple, and he bites back a whine when he presents the red to Martin. “You’re hurt?”

“No,” he mouths, but this is why he wanted to stop back at the penthouse before coming here. “I’m fine,” he signs, not that his dad notices. Nothing gets through to him. Not “other guy’s” not “messy”; it isn’t until Martin huffs loudly and bends down so he can see properly. Hands cup his head gently, and a few fingers run across his hairline. He endures it until Oswald lets go with a sigh of relief. “Told you.”

“Don’t be  _ flippant _ ,” Oswald snits. “You were supposed to be done  _ hours _ ago. You missed  _ dinner _ .”

“On no,” Martin signs, keeping his expression deadpan, letting just a little smirk through when Oswald gapes at him. “Saw me. Ran. Tracking took time.”

“It’s nearly two in the morning,” Oswald mumbles, running his gloved hands over Martin’s waistcoat and huffing at the stains in the snow white silk. He can’t stop sighing now that he’s started, and he stands back and shakes his head sadly.

“You didn’t have to wait,” Martin signs.

Oswald shakes his head and reaches out, looping one hand through Martin’s arm and using him as a substitute for his cane as he leads them towards the door. He’s having a bad pain day; Martin always gets a sore elbow on these days, but he bears Oswald’s weight without complaint all the way down to the car.

-

Ed isn’t asleep when they arrive at the penthouse, but somehow he never is, always the first to rise and the last to drop. He smiles up at the both of them from a chaotic sprawl of blueprints he’s spread out across the dining room table and waves Martin over. “Oswald tells me you got a bit messy this evening.”

Martin huffs and turns around, but Oswald is tending to a glass of wine in the kitchen and pointedly ignoring the conversation he helped orchestrate. He turns back to Ed and leans over the table to humor him for a few minutes. He’ll keep himself going for hours without needing Martin there to spur him on.

“I’ve been thinking, obviously not just tonight,” obviously  _ not _ , but Martin only rolls his eyes once Ed’s not looking, “but I think there is a certain appeal to giving you a gimmick of sorts. Something to get you a bit  _ removed _ from the front line. Though I am a fan of the man’s work, I think it would be best to avoid making another Pollock out of your waistcoat.”

He isn’t even  _ wearing _ it anymore. Did Oswald send  _ pictures _ ? Martin turns to glare, but Oswald’s gone, probably up in their bedroom to soak his leg. Ed’s fidgeting with his pen when Martin turns back around, and he jumps right into his explanation once he has a fraction of his attention. “So here’s my thinking,  _ needles _ -”

“No,” Martin signs, shaking his head.

“Right, too much Scarecrow, too little  _ you _ ,” he looks up at Martin, staring, trying to suss out  _ something _ from his disheveled appearance. Ed snaps his fingers. “What’s a rogue without his personal je ne se quoi? His iconography. His  _ theme _ .”

“Dad,” he signs. It much better at getting Ed’s attention than Oswald’s. “Tired.”

“Right, it’s late,” he isn’t stopping anytime soon, but he shoos Martin away with one hand, the other already returning to his blueprints. “I’m worthless with one but priceless with two.”

“Love you too,” Martin signs.

And he’s almost to his room, so close to his shower and warm pajamas and his bed, but Oswald catches him out in the hall, offering up said pajamas (still warm from the dryer and oh so soft) and a thick, plush towel. He’s also hovering, and he follows Martin all the way to his bathroom without any signs of leaving him to finish cleaning up so he can sleep.

“What,” Martin signs. Oswald says  _ nothing _ , just keeps up his silent vigil. “ _ What _ ,” he signs more violently, huffing and stamping a foot.

“There’s always other work,” he starts, trailing off when Martin glowers at him. “I’m just suggesting your involvement in the empire may have been  _ hasty _ , Martin. You’re  _ more _ than capable, but-”

“Dad,” he signs, softer, (the old ‘daddy’ sign trick always calms him down even if Oswald will never admit it), “I want to.”

“Such a good boy,” Oswald says. He demands Martin duck down so he can kiss his cheek, and he pats a hand against his chest. “Ed wants to bring up some techniques again.”

“Dad no,” Martin signs, groaning.

“I  _ know _ , but you know how he is,” Oswald sighs fondly. Martin knows plenty but Oswald’s  _ blind _ to the truth. “Don’t use all the hot water.  _ Some  _ of us stayed up late worrying because their son never called and didn’t get a chance to soak.”

“Dad,” the one he signs for Ed, which he seems to like better anyway, “told me no. Silence.” He emphasizes with a zipping his lips motion. “Batman listens.”

“Nosy good for nothing,” Oswald grumbles. “I’m tired of this city. I’m going to bed. I love you, but don’t turn into your father. I can’t bare to have two of you in this house.”

“Love you,” he signs. He rolls his eyes and turns on the hot water, filling the room with steam, and starts washing away the evidence.


End file.
